The confessions of a girl who smokes too much, drinks too much and once shat in a coconut.

Actually, dumped is not quite the right word, suggesting that we were an official couple in the first place. I think a more accurate description is PIED.

The deed occurred at about 2am, sat opposite one another at the tiny kitchen table in his flat. We’d just come back from a ‘do’ at the local pub – a civilised gathering, with a few friends, a few drinks and a pianist playing Christmas tunes – and were both a little on the tipsy side.

Actually, again, ‘tipsy’ is not quite the right word here.

Having spent the entire evening downing free shots of tequila with the barman (who at one point attempted to LITERALLY PICK ME UP, before staggering backwards under my colossal weight, like a removal man carrying a grand piano, and falling on top of me) I was completely and utterly pole-axed.

Matters were not helped by the fact that I had, throughout the course of the evening, managed to acquire myself a tambourine and had taken to loudly bashing along with the pianist, to the horror of those around me, and hollering out ‘Jingle Bells’.

‘It’s just not working for me, Gabs,’ said Rob,, staring awkwardly at the floor and shakily trying to light his cigarette.

‘No, not that. I mean this. Us. It’s just not working for me anymore.’

There was a moment of silence whilst I digested this information.

‘Is this about the tambourine?’ I whispered, horrified.

‘No it’s not about the tambourine. I don’t know what it is really. Things were great at the start but… the thing is, I kind of miss my ex.’

That was enough for me.

‘WELL IT WAS LOVELY MEETING YOU I’M OFF TO GET MY TAXI NOW CHEERIO BYE!’ I gabbled, knocking over my chair as I made a desperate bid for the door.

Rob caught up with me as I stood shaking and panting on the pavement outside.

‘Gabby… you don’t have any shoes on.’

I looked down at my bottom half. I was wearing a leather skirt and patterned tights, with my big toe poking out through a hole in the left foot. Like a hobo out on the pull.

I still to this day don’t know where those FUCKING SHOES went, but after ransacking the flat from top to bottom, neither of us speaking as I tried desperately not to cry/throw up/punch something, I eventually got into a taxi without them.

The floodgates opened on the journey home (the horrified Uber driver even pulled over, found me a napkin to blow my nose on, and gave me a pep talk about there being ‘plenty more fish in the sea), and continued well into the following morning.

‘What’s wrong with me, Mummy?’ I sobbed down the phone, whilst pouring gin straight down my throat. ‘Why does this keep happening to me? I feel awful.’

Mother offered her usual Enid Blyton style of advice.

‘I know what you need,’ she said. ‘Some fresh air and a banana!’

‘Mum, I don’t really think -‘

‘Tell you what. Why don’t Dad and I find you a nice chap to date down here, whilst you’re home for Christmas?’

‘Now just hear me out before you POOH POOH the idea. I know you don’t think much of the men here in the Cotswolds, calling them ‘backwards’ and ‘turnip diggers’ and whatnot. But if you opened your eyes a bit I think you’d find some real humdingers!’

‘I don’t want a humdinger.’

‘You need to branch away from these selfish actor/comedian types. Find a man with a CRAFT. Like a vet… or a boiler fitter!’

And so, on 23rd December, at my parent’s new house in the arse end of nowhere, I found myself sitting on the sofa, on Tinder, bottle of red wine in hand.

‘No, no, no,’ I muttered as I swiped left, trying not to shudder at the selection of men carrying pitchforks, posing topless with baby pigs, etcetera.

Having had very trying ten-minute conversation with a young man who, it transpired, knew my parents as he had DRAINED THE SEPTIC TANK IN OUR GARDEN, I eventually admitted defeat and fell into a drunken stupor.

I was awoken by my mother mere hours later.

‘MORNING!’ she cried, blasting into my bedroom and throwing open the curtains. ‘I thought you’d like a bit of a lie-in.’

I looked at my phone. It was 8am.

‘Now then, are you still coming with me to Tesco’s?’

No. NOOOO.

Going to a Tesco superstore is a traumatising experience at the best of times. A Tesco superstore on Christmas Eve is like entering the zombie apocalypse. Parents screaming at children (‘PUT THE BARBIE DOWN, SHAKIRA! PUT IT DOOOWN! LET’S SEE WHAT FUCKIN’ SANTA BRINGS!’), old ladies blindly ploughing into each other with trollies and a depressed shop worker dressed as a giant mince pie (probably one of my fellow drama school graduates).

As soon as we entered, I could feel last night’s red wine repeating itself on me.

‘Mum, I’m feeling a bit ill,’ I ventured, swaying into the nearest stand of bananas. ‘Can I get a lucozade?’

‘What’s a loofah-blade?’ she asked breezily, before sailing past to fight over some brazil nuts.

Eventually we made it to the till.

‘Look Mum, this one’s free!’ I said with relief, pointing to a totally empty conveyer belt, with young male shop assistant sat behind it.

‘No!’ Mum exclaimed in a stage whisper, glancing surreptitiously into her basket. ‘We can’t go up to a man, with SANITARY items. What will he think?’

Christmas passed in a boozy, gluttonous blur (my parents unfortunately still believe me to be a vegetarian, so this year we sat down to carve a BEETROOT PARTY FLAN), until it was nearly New Year’s Eve.

I had made plans, this year, to travel back to my hometown of Cardiff and spent the evening with my good friend Daniel.

(Daniel and I formed a firm friendship when we were in a production of Spring Awakening together, seven years ago. It was a jolly little show – his character had to toss himself off on stage, whilst mine begged to be beaten over the arse with a stick. I don’t think my parents have ever quite got over the shock of it all.)

After catching up over a bottle of gin, we headed into town with two of his mates – Steve and Jonathan. Now, I don’t like to blow my own trumpet and I admit that it is a FREAKISH rarity, but I had a sneaking suspicion that Steve had the hots for me.

I would probably have fancied him back, except that he was mind-numbingly dull and looked like a bearded Lego man.

Having cavorted round the usual clubs and downed several hundred cocktails, by about 3am I was in my usual rat-arsed state. We had, unfortunately, also lost Daniel.

‘FUCK IT,’ I hiccupped. ‘I’m meant to be staying at his tonight. Gonna have to sleep on this bench.’

‘STAY AT MINE!’ cried Steve, popping out from behind a bin. ‘My flat is just 10 minutes away.’

Feeling that this was probably not the wisest of ideas but too drunk by this point to care, I found myself agreeing.

‘Now no funny business, Steven, I mean it,’ I slurred, setting off purposefully in the direction of the taxi rank. ‘I may grant you a kiss… but I am a lady of twenty six and not to be trifled with.’

‘No, no,’ he nervously gabbled, running after me with my coat and handbag. ‘I can sleep on the sofa. Or floor. I’m just so glad you’re staying!’

I must have dozed off in the taxi, as when I awoke we were outside a Sainsbury’s Local. And Steve was climbing back into the taxi with a carrier bag.

‘I thought I’d get us some breakfast stuff for the morning,’ he jabbered, pulling items out one by one. ‘Eggs, bacon… CONDOMS!’

Unfortunately, I had reached the point of drunkenness where I was not only bad company, but had become somewhat demanding, in the manner of Dame Edna.

‘I WOULD LIKE A GLASS OF WINE, STEVEN,’ I declared, sashaying my way into the living room. ‘Actually, forget the wine, I need a cigarette. Actually no, forget the cigarette, I need a shower. Immediately. I’m too sweaty.’

The poor boy ran me a shower, whilst I stripped off and lurched my way in.

‘You may join if you so wish!’ I shouted through the door, thinking to myself, ‘fuck it, when in Rome!’ Or Cardiff.

Now I am all up for a joint shower. I had not previously experienced one myself, but had watched enough dirty films to know that this was going to be a very sexy and alluring experience.

Unfortunately, Steve owned what is known as a POWER SHOWER.

And what ensued was about the unsexiest shower scene known to mankind.

Clearly expecting me to be stood there seductively sudsing myself in a white bikini, like Myleene Klass on ‘I’m A Celebrity’, Steve entered the shower to face me stood, butt naked, under a boiling jet of water, looking like something from The Grudge.

‘This is nice!’ I shouted over the deafening downpour, trying not to choke as the water ran down my face into my mouth, blinding me in the process.

‘It is!’ he cried, attempting to feel his way towards me, through the thick wall of steam.

I lurched out of the direction of the shower head and grabbed hold of a mini shelf, scattering a load of razors, soap and beard cream onto the floor.

‘I’m going to suds myself up now!’ I cried, bending down and grabbing the bar of soap in what I hoped was an alluring manner, until it violently shot out my hand and hit him in the face.

The whole thing ended with me completely overheating, panicking, then karate kicking my way out the shower door, nearly taking the thing off its hinges.

Poor Steve then had to towel dry me, like a dog, whilst I sat comatose on the bathroom floor, before blow-drying my hair and putting me to bed with a hot Ribena.

I think I’ll stick to Tinder.

G xx

P.S Stay tuned for the release of my first book- ‘LUSH: A True Story, Soaked In Gin’- due out on the shelves July 2018! Available to pre-order now on Amazon (cover to be revealed soon). I promise you a filthy read.

Most recently was my decision to become a weekend van driver. And not just any van driver. Oh no. A van driver entrusted with the task of transporting FIFTEEN DOGS TO AND FROM A DAYCARE CENTRE.

My trial day was a nightmare.

Sensing my nerves, the dogs were horrendously behaved from start to finish.

Having spent the entire journey barking and humping on the back seat, they then proceeded to CLIMB INTO THE FRONT WITH ME at the traffic lights; panting in my face, chewing the gearstick and putting their feet up on the dashboard. The only well behaved member of the party was a sweet, old Westie, who curled up quietly on my lap before proceeding to lay a steaming shit down my leg.

Needless to say, I did not return.

HOWEVER, by far my most catastrophic decision of the year was applying to go on a daytime dating/cookery programme.

For those that do not know, this resulted in me face planting into a raw chicken on national television, before being put to bed by the film crew with a cold flannel.

I WAS RATHER BAFFLED, THEREFORE, to receive a call from from the production company last month inviting me back on the show.

Having provided them with such comedy gold in the last episode, they were now offering me the coveted role of the ‘picker’. This involved simply going on three blind dates, having three dinners cooked for me and picking the winner at the end.

Restless, jobless and mentally unstable, I found myself agreeing.

‘This will be easy!’ I thought. ‘All I have to do is go on the dates, eat the food and have a nice time. I can’t possibly fuck this one up’.

OH, HOW WRONG I WAS.

Date Number One- Pete*

2pm

Most girls would be prepared for this day. They would spend WEEKS preparing themselves.

This includes grown-out hair ( even managing to form a DREAD-LOCK at the back, which I have resorted to cutting out with a pair of kitchen scissors, leaving a small, chilly bald patch), a black fingernail which I drunkenly trapped in a toilet door last weekend, 10 pounds of extra weight gained (morphing into 3 extra chins, like Desperate Dan) and not a single outfit to wear.

‘HELP ME!’ I sobbed down the phone to my friend Rowena. ‘I have nothing to wear. NOTHING. I am morbidly obese. Every dress I try on makes me look like Dame Edna’.

I don’t know where the arsing film crew have got to but I am beyond caring.

I have befriended a lovely, LOVELY bartender called Greg, who finds my situation hilarious and has been plying me with free tequila shots all night. He’s rather tall with a long, bushy beard; an irresistible cross between Gandalf and Mr Twit. Mmmm.

I am just on the verge of inviting Greg back to my flat for a game of twister and some ‘hot tea’, when my director pulls up.

‘I’m so so sorry about the delay. It’s inexcusable’ she pants. ‘The thing is, one of our cameras broke and then- Christ, are you alright?’

She stares at me in horror, as I sway precariously on the pavement.

‘Hmm? Oh yes. Absolutely dandy’ I slur, trying desperately to focus on one of her six revolving heads.

I flash what I hope is a sober smile, looking more like a stoned Cheshire Cat, before climbing into the car.

Well. He does not look pleased to see me. Quite the opposite in fact. For a second I wonder whether I have been brought to the right house

I’m met by a tall, thin man, dressed in tight black trousers, a black polo neck sweater and a black bowler hat. I feel like he’s going to spontaneously burst into a mime routine.

Introducing himself as Pete, he eyes me suspiciously before hastily ushering me inside, as if worried that I’m about to take a shit on his doorstep and carve my name in it.

‘This is lovely!’ I enthuse, as we walk through to the dining room- two plastic garden chairs and a garden table with a curtain thrown over it. Hideous.

We sit in silence on the sofa.

Pete does not offer to take my coat or offer me anything to drink. Luckily, I have an emergency bottle of white wine in my handbag, which I pour us two glasses of.

‘Cheers! Here’s to us’ I beam at him. He stares stonily back.

Thankfully, we are then separated to film our ‘first impressions’ for the camera.

‘Well, he’s not my usual type but I’m really looking forward to getting to know him’ I enthuse, deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt ‘I can’t wait to see what the night has in store’.

Poor Pete, I muse as I’m sent upstairs to wait. Perhaps he’s just shy and not used to having female company. The poor man is clearly so dazzled by my sparkling wit and good looks that he can barely speak!

Clutching my glass, I creep out to listen at the top of the stairs.

‘WELL, IT’S SAFE TO SAY THAT I’M NOT ATTRACTED TO HER IN THE SLIGHTEST’ I hear him loudly declare.

No spark? No spark?!!!! YOU’RE TELLING ME, LOVE! Christ, getting conversation out of you was like getting blood out of a fucking turnip!

‘And I didn’t like to say anything…’ Pete continues. ‘But she’s clearly been drinking before she arrived. She’s absolutely plastered’

That did it then.

‘RIGHT! I’M READY FOR MY STARTER!’ I cry, stamping crossly down the stairs and planting myself heavily on the garden chair, nearly falling through it.

11.30pm

The evening steadily went from bad to worse.

Pete sullenly brought out each course, whilst I necked back more and more wine in retaliation. Plastered? I’LL SHOW YOU PLASTERED.

Now, this show is supposed to be a laid back, warm bubble bath of a programme. It’s aired before the watershed. The height of drama is usually someone not taking their quiche’s out the oven in time.

The camera team were astounded, therefore, by what followed next.

‘So, now that the meal is over I would like to say a few things’ announced Pete, placing his knife and fork together.

I smiled encouragingly, thinking he was going to apologise for his bad temper and perhaps whip out a bottle of tequila.

‘I feel that you’ve been fake laughing the entire evening. And fake smiling. You’ve been mocking me all night’

I stared, flabbergasted.

‘You’ve been drunk and disorderly from start to finish’ he continued ‘You’ve barely touched my food, just knocked back the wine AND I heard you tell the camera that my raspberry coulis looked like a plate of Ribena. I think it’s time that you left’.

Completely speechless with shock, I was ushered outside to film my final comments.

Now I am not a crier. I never have been. But the combination of fresh air, tiredness and 4 litres of wine suddenly got to me.

‘THAT WAS THE WORST DATE IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD!!’ I cry, bursting into noisy sobs.

‘He was r-really mean a-and his food was h-horrible, I’m t-t-tired, my chins are weighing me down and I- I— I JUST WANT TO ORDER A DOMINOS AND GO HOME!’

Date 2- Daniel*

11.30 am

Oh God no. I cannot face going on a another date tonight. No no no.

It’s the morning after and I am sat on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet bowl.

Last night keeps coming back in a series of hideous flashbacks. The argument. The tears. The drunken review I wrote of my Uber driver, detailing how he was ‘a wise, witty and beautiful man, with an excellent command of the steering wheel’.

6.30pm

Having had a very boozy lunch with my friend Henry, who convinced me that last nights date was an utter pillock, I set off for my second date in much higher spirits.

The cameras start rolling as I knock on the door. It opens.

’SHIT A BRICK! I cry out, involuntarily.

This guy is hot. Actually hot. A real fitty.

I am quickly taken off to film my first impressions for the camera, before my loins catch fire.

I don’t know whether it is the stress, the hangover or the sexual frustration but I inexplicably turn into an aroused grandmother.

If I have taken anything away from this experience it is that I never want to date again in my life.

I don’t want to truss myself up like some prize Christmas turkey and think up interesting conversation all evening.

I want to be sat in my pyjamas, watching The Apprentice and steadily working my way through a bottle of gin.

‘Now just to let you know, Raymond is very nervous’ the director warned me at the door. ‘So just be your usual bubbly, witty self’

‘Oh brilliant’ I thought, darkly. This is just what I need. I feel about as witty as a pile of sick.

Raymond did indeed look like he was about to shit his pants as he answered the door.

‘Right. This is going to need two large doses of wine, swiftly followed by several shots’ I thought sagely to myself, diagnosing the situation like some alcoholic doctor.

I reach into my bag for my emergency wine bottle.

Amazingly, the emergency bottle was not needed. Raymond had laid on enough alcohol to fill an Olympic sized swimming pool.

He wasn’t even repulsed when I’d lapped him by three glasses of prosecco, instead handing me the bottle to finish.

‘This is smashing’ I beamed at the camera, merrily filling up my glass, ‘I’m not sure I fancy him but he’s made such an effort. There are flowers on all the tables. And candles in the loo. And he’s promised me that I can take the remaining wine home for the taxi ride!’.

The evening got steadily better and better from this point.

Raymond was indeed the perfect gentleman- filling up my glass as soon as it was empty (no easy task) and not seeming to mind when I barely ate any of his food.

He wasn’t even offended when I got the giggles at his mother’s prized portrait on the wall (it was HILARIOUS- a painting of Raymond as a baby, lying coquettishly on a velvet cushion and wearing nothing but a golden dock leaf), laughing so hard that I shot wine out my nose.

By the end of the night I was in such raring spirits that I even agreed to Skype his mother with him.

ANYWAY, having endured three long years at drama school (once you have spent a half-hour class ’embodying a piece of bamboo’ you can cope with anything) I graduated in a whirlwind of excitement, ready to seize my career on stage and screen.

Yet, something wasn’t quite right.

Instead of attending castings for films and West End plays, the only audition I landed in 3 months was for the role of a magicians assistant. In an advert for a NORWEGIAN SEWAGE COMPANY.

This involved pretending to be ‘conjured into a chicken’ (quite what this had to do with sewage I will never know) and crawling around on my hands and knees, loudly clucking, in front of a casting panel of four people.

I was also sent a script to audition for a new short film. This, rather insultingly, was for the role of ‘an older, more overweight version of Vicky Pollard’. I mean, I was SELECTED to audition for this role. As in, the casting director will have scanned a database of hundreds of faces, stopped at mine and gone ‘FUCK ME, SHE’S A RIGHT MUNTER, ISN’T SHE?!’ and put me forward for the casting.

So things were looking rather bleak.

Meanwhile, I was working full time in a local bar, pouring pints for drunken louts who would shout ‘CAN I GET SOME MORE HEAD WITH THAT PINT, LOVE? WHEEEY!’.

Then, around Christmas time, something miraculous happened. I landed my first proper job, in a popular soap. This was to play the small role of a nurse working in an STI clinic (yes I know, very appropriate, ha de ha ha).

For the sake of my career, im not sure whether I should name the programme in question, but lets just say that it half-rhymes with JOLLY GROPES. WALLY BLOKES. Or TROLLY JOKES (you get the picture).

My character was called ‘Nurse With No Name’ (it looks stunning on my CV) and had the task of imparting one crucial line: ‘THE TEST WAS NEGATIVE, JON PAUL. YOU DON’T HAVE AIDS’.

The day of filming dawned.

Having not slept for the entire night, one eye permanently trained on the alarm clock like a keen lizard, I arrived for my 7am make-up call looking a little ‘groggy’. In fact, groggy is an understatement. We are talking shiny skin, wild hair and mad little piggy eyes. Like I had spent the night in a wheelie bin.

This was, of course, when I ran slap bang into my scene partner; the gorgeous actor playing Jon Paul.

Now, I have had fan-like crush on this actor since the age of about 13.

So much so, that I used to have a topless poster of him hugging a baby rabbit, ripped out of a Girl Talk magazine.

And the problem was, although I was well aware of who HE was, I completely forgot that he had never seen me before in his life.

‘HELLO YOU, OLD SAUCE-POT!!’ I cried, embracing him in a bear like hug and slapping him heartily on the back. ‘How’s your rabbit doing?’.

If slightly shocked as to who this delirious, Hagrid-like girl was cradling him to her breast, he didn’t show it and was perfectly lovely.

‘Looking forward to working with you today’ he smiled.

‘Ahh what a delightful young man’ I thought to myself. ‘Today’s going to be brilliant. A memory that I will fondly cherish forever and ever’.

Little did I know what utter horrors lay before me.

Having left makeup, I was whisked up to costume to put on my ‘nurse attire’.

I had been phoned up by the costume department a few days previously and asked for my dress size.

‘Ohhh I’m quite petite. A slip of a thing, really!’ I flagrantly fibbed , fearful that upon learning my real dress size they would cry ‘CHRIST, WE CAN’T HIRE THIS HEFFER!’ and offer the role to someone else.

‘Yes, I think I’m somewhere between a 6 and an 8!’ I trilled.

THIS WAS A BIG FAT LIE.

I stared at my costume in horror.

Laid out in front of me was the teeniest tiniest pair of trousers and shirt I had ever seen before in my life. Something that might just about fit a Cabbage Patch Kid doll.

Trying not to hyperventilate, I plastered on a joyous smile.

‘Oh thank you SO MUCH! These look PERFECT. I’ll just slip into them and be out in a sec’.

What ensued thereafter, I can only liken to trying to stuff a large blancmange into a thimble.

I somehow managed to get the clothes on… But any sudden movements and I would have literally EXPLODED out of them. The only way I could physically move in the trousers was to maintain a sort of ‘squatted’ position, like I was about to lay a large dump.

‘How do the clothes fit?’ called the costume boy through the door.

‘LIKE A BLOODY GLOVE!’ I called back through gritted teeth, panting and sweating with the exertion of trying to do up my fly.

I was already starting to lose the sensation in both my arms. The short cotton sleeves were so tight that they had cut off all circulation. Like some butchers string wrapped around a piece of pork.

The only adjustment he made was to attach a large safety pin across the front of my shirt, which unable to cope with the strain of my heaving breasts, was gaping open like some lardy stripper.

I waddled my way to the set.

Now, I consider myself to be a fairly strong stomached girl. One has to be growing up in rural Wales. Such as the time, aged 12, when my Shetland pony was castrated and the vet HANDED ME THE BALLS TO KEEP.

But if there is one thing that I cannot abide, it’s blood and needles.

I was the girl at school who had to have a crash mat put down when having injections. And fainted whilst dissecting a pigs heart.

I rather disturbed therefore, to be met on set by a real nurse who would be instructing me on how to REALISTICALLY INSERT A NEEDLE AND PERFORM A BLOOD TEST.

Cheerfully, she laid out the instruments of torture on the table- wipes, needles, tubes, cotton wool- and talked me through it step by step.

The room started swaying as I broke into a cold sweat.

‘KEEP IT TOGETHER, GABRIELLE’ I told myself ‘This is your first ever day of filming. Now is NOT the time to faint, throw up or shit yourself’.

Unfortunately, having already lost all sensation in my limbs due to my child-size clothing, I was very near the point of face-planting into the floor.

The cameras started rolling.

Sweating, teeth chattering and body parts inflating in random places due to my restricted blood flow, I descended on Jon Paul with the needle. To be fair to him, he handled it well. It must have been a truly terrifying sight- less jolly nurse, more the angel of death.

Traumatused, I was driven back to the studio canteen for lunch.

Everybody sat in cliques. It was like Mean Girls. All the make-up women at one table, all the camera crew at another, all the extras… There was nowhere for exploding trouser girl.

I rang my mother from the toilet cubicle.

‘I’M ALL ALONE, MUMMY!’ I cried. ‘Everybody knows each other and it’s really intimidating and I can’t really move properly incase I ERUPT FROM THESE CASTRATING TROUSERS!!!’

This is when my mother imparted her usual Marge Simpson- like advice.

‘You stroll on over there’ she instructed ‘And say Hello! My name is Gabrielle and I would like to be your friend! Or perhaps you could hand something around, like a packet of Werther’s Originals’.

‘No, Mum-‘

‘Or I could ring up whoever’s in charge and ask someone to come and sit with you, if you like. I used to do that for you when you were little. I remember when you were at Pony Club and you were too scared to use the portaloo by yourself, so instead chose to defecate in-‘

I think it was at that point that I hung up.

Lunch hour ended and it was time to film the last part of the scene. This involved simply sitting behind a desk and delivering my one line of dialogue-‘The test was negative, Jon Paul. YOU DON’T HAVE AIDS’.

‘Let’s try and get this in one take guys!’ the director called.

I nervously got into position.

‘And… ACTION!’

A dramatic silence fell. Composing my features into what I hoped was an expression of wisdom and authority, I cleared my throat ready to deliver my one, crucial line.

‘The test was negative, Jon Paul. You don’t have- AAAGH!’.

A sudden, sharp pain stabbed into my right boob, followed by a cool gust of air.

There was a horrified silence in the room. We are talking an entire film crew, director and actors all staring in utter disbelief, whilst I casually sat in front of the camera with both tits hanging out.

I kept the transmission date of my episode a dirty secret.

Which is just as well really, as when it aired they chose to cut out my head out from the scene (By this I mean that my head wasn’t in shot. I don’t mean like a severed head).

Instead, there is just a beautifully filmed shot of my clammy, inflated clown hands, shakily administering a needle.

My friends rang me afterwards with words of encouragement, as a sat necking back gin in horror- ‘We could tell they were your hands, Gab- we recognised your mole!’

No human being can physically consume 2 bottles of wine, 5 jagerbombs, 2 mojito’s, 3 tequila shots, an entire pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea and still live to tell the tale.

I feel strangely calm about it all.

‘At least she died doing what she loved’ they will say. ‘Getting off her tits’.

I am ready. Take my hand, oh Lord and lead me through those pearly gates!

Let me feed you grapes and plait your beard. Sit on your lap and confess to you my sins.

(I don’t mean that in a prozzy, lap-dancey sort of way. That would be totally wrong. I mean like innocently sitting on Santa Claus’ lap. A family friendly Santa. Not the perverted kind, where people pay to be put on the ‘naughty list’ and be beaten over the bottom with a candy cane).

Blearily, I peel open one burning eye.

Well I must say, heaven isn’t quite how I expected.

There are no angels, for starters. No fat cherub plucking a harp. No Elvis Presley donning a loin cloth and singing ‘A Big Hunk O’Love’.

Instead, I am staring into the eye of a battered sausage. A half-eaten battered sausage.

Whilst lying spread eagled on my kitchen floor.

Oh god. This is not death. This is something far, far worse.

This is the hangover from hell.

I’m not talking the bearable kind, where you pop a couple of painkillers, untag the photo of you shitting in a bus shelter and head off for brunch.

Oh no.

We are talking the type of hangover sent by Lucifer himself.

The sort where every limb feels like it’s been through a Christmas tree shredder. Like a small family of possums have curled up and died in your mouth. A group of primary school children have just learnt to make scrambled eggs. WITH YOUR BRAIN.

I also appear to be stark bollock naked, bar my ancient pair of Winnie the Pooh pants, which depict a map of the 100 Acre Wood. They are by far the most shameful item of lingerie I own and are only worn in times of desperation.

Oh please, God. Please say I didn’t bring a man home in these. Right now, I have about the sex appeal of a courgette.

I peel my head from the floor and look towards the door.

Mens shoes. Oh god. Big brown suede ones. That will be him. They are bloody huge actually, aren’t they? Like flippers. Maybe I brought back a clown. Or a walrus.

Oh Christ. Did I choose to be rogered in my own kitchen? Perform some hideous striptease for him, wearing nothing but stiletto’s a pair of oven gloves? Bend myself over the hob and demand a good porking?

I don’t know who this man is, or where he has come from but fear it has something to do with the battered sausage.

I sometimes find it hard to believe that life has turned out this way.

I led a very sheltered childhood.

A proper country bumpkin, who’s favourite hobbies included bailing hay and accompanying my father to the rubbish dump.

‘Why would I choose to drink alcohol when I can get FRESH MILK from our very own cow?’

‘You’re all going down the park to do balloons and poppers? Oh goody, I LOVE poppers! I’ll bring the paper hats. And know how to make a balloon stegosaurus!’

‘Sorry Ben, it’s really sweet of you to invite me to the party tonight but Mum’s making me my favourite casserole. With EXTRA DUMPLINGS!’

I drove a tractor . I sang in the church choir. I owned a pig.

I didn’t care much for clubs and would rather make my own fun on a Friday night. Such as farting in the bath and pretending it’s a jacuzzi.

But then I moved to London. And all hell broke lose.

It started with the fags.

I had previously written off smoking as a filthy habit.

‘Why would anybody choose to deliberately knock years off their life?!’ I cried to my mother, whilst she vacuumed the dog.

‘I cannot WAIT to grow old. I can watch Miss Marple. Eat biscuits. And sit on a COMMODE! That’s a chair that you can actually poo in!’.

(As a toddler I used to have daily ‘potty and video’ time. This involved being sat in front of my favourite show, usually Playdays, whilst cheerfully laying a gigantic dump. It remains one of my fondest childhood memories. So the thought that I could go full circle in about 80 years time was all too much).

But at uni, my opinion on smoking started to change. Due to one, small fact:

ALL THE FIT MEN WERE IN THE SMOKING AREA.

Like, seriously. All of them.

I soon realised that this dirty, glorious little death stick was my one way ticket to a giant cock fest.

And I was diving in head first.

Being a smoking novice, there were some slight mishaps along the way.

Such as the time I borrowed a guys lighter, locking eyes over the flame in what I considered to be a sultry manner and inadvertently set my fringe on fire.

Or the time I nervously rolled a fag in front of the guy I really fancied, realising too late that I had licked the wrong side of the paper. Therefore making the cigarette baggy and completely un-smokable. Determined not to lose face, I casually took a drag and managed to actually INHALE THE FILTER. As in, it shot straight out the back of the cigarette and down my throat.

It is quite hard to look sexy whilst being given the heimlich manoeuvre.

And then I met him.

They say that love can strike from anywhere. I didn’t believe them till it happened.

Gordon was more than just a lover- he was a soulmate. The ying to my yang. The bean to my burrito.

Someone who warmed me through cold winter nights, lay down with me on hot summer days, and came as my date to every party.

And he went with so much. Tonic water. Elderflower. Orange juice. Cucumber. I’ve even tried him with dried mango, which I would thoroughly recommend.

Ahh that beautiful, strong bottle in that murky green shade.

God, I want my wedding dress to be that shade of green. And my husband’s suit. In fact fuck it, I don’t even want a husband. I will happily walk down the aisle pulling along a bottle of Gordon’s on wheels. Exchange rings. Read vows. Sing from hymn books. Or should I say gin books. HA HA HA.

I’m going mad. I need to get up off this kitchen floor and stick my head in the fridge.

I’m unsure at this point exactly who lies behind my bedroom door, but judging from my recent conquests it will be one of three types of men:

An arrogant suit wanker, who secretly gets spray tans and lives with his mother.

A balding man wearing a yellow anorak and waterproof trousers, which I thought last night to be funny and ironic. But now just realise that he loves wet weather gear. And is planning on taking me fishing.

A genuinely lovely, normal man, who took one look at my 100 Acre Wood pants and ran straight out the door, not bothering to take his shoes.

The dresses had arrived. The hymns had been selected. The letter of apology had been sent to St David’s Hotel and Spa.

It was time for Sarah to get married.

The Rehearsal

I drove home to Wales and headed straight to the gin cabinet.

I say gin cabinet… I have now learnt to refer to it as the ELDERFLOWER cabinet.

‘Just pouring myself a refreshing elderflower cordial!’ I smiled breezily at my parents, unscrewing the cordial bottle with my right hand whilst surreptitiously pouring Gordon’s with my left. It is a skilful act that has taken many attempts to master. Like an alcoholic Jackie Chan.

‘Are you sure that tonic water and limes really go with-‘

‘WHY YES! That’s the beauty of elderflower… It goes with everything!’

I then charged off to my bedroom before I could be questioned further.

I stared at my flushed and slightly mad reflection in the mirror.

Sarah is getting married. MARRIED. Is this the end of life as she knows it? Good God, what if she gets a perm? And starts going to oven glove conventions?

KEEP YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, GABRIELLE. Now is not the time for the bridesmaid to get cold feet.

I must accept that my partner in crime is moving on.

The final parting of Pegleg and Bitchtits.

(Note: for those that don’t know, the nicknames Pegleg and Bitchtits stem from a girls holiday we took to Magaluf in 2010. Along with the entire population of Bridgend. Hundreds of rowdy Welsh eighteen year olds keen to drink their own body weight, sleep with strangers and stick fireworks up their arses.

Sarah badly sprained her ankle one night and needed to be taken to A&E.

However, we chose not take that option… As that would waste precious drinking time! WHEEEY!

Instead we decided to fashion her a homemade splint, consisting of ripped up bed sheets, kirby grips and TWIGS.

The result was outstanding- Sarah mincing around the clubs in a little mini dress, with a gigantic club foot.

I don’t remember how I acquired the name Bitchtits but suspect it has something to do with my penchant for tossing my bra off in clubs and lassoing it around my head. Or the time I whipped both my breasts out on the dance floor and banged them together like a pair of bellows).

Five hours later and it was time to head to church for the rehearsal.

Unfortunately, I was also seven elderflower’s down and could barely see straight.

‘I’M OFF TO THE HOUSE OF THE LORD!’ I called cheerfully to my parents, doing my very elaborate ‘sober’ walk down the driveway, which looks rather like I’ve soiled myself.

I arrived to find Sarah and the three other bridesmaid’s huddled outside, looking rather stressed.

Apparently some prankster had managed to blow the fuse in the church, so we would be conducting the entire rehearsal via candle light and the torches on our iPhones.

I could feel a horrendous bout of ‘church giggles’ rising up inside me, a condition stemming from my school days.
For instance, the time when the vicar read out the Bible story of ‘The Miraculous Catch of Fish’ and referred to how Jesus ‘seized his tackle’.

We were ushered inside.

Now, our local reverend is a lovely man…. But one gets the impression that he is not actually a real vicar. More like an actor playing the role of a vicar in a Carry On film.

‘Right then!’ he cried, rubbing his hands in excitement.

‘I’m going to start the service by revving up the audience!’

‘The congregation, Allen’ Sarah’s mother worriedly corrected ‘We’re in the house of God’.

‘Yes, that’s the badger!’ He beamed, bounding up the aisle.

‘And then I’m going to take to the stage-‘

‘The pulpit’

‘Yes, yes PULPIT’.

By this point, us bridesmaids were finding it very hard to keep things together and had resulted to quietly crying tears of laughter behind our Bible’s.

It was during the vows, when the vicar instructed Sarah and Alex to hold hands, adding ‘I’m a two-hander man myself!’ that I completely lost it and had to call it a day.

The Night Before

Armed with dresses, hair products and 40 tonnes of make up, we arrived at Sarah’s mother’s house to stay the night.

A strict two drink rule had been installed (‘There’s nothing worse than a drunk bride, Sarah!’) so I had taken it upon myself to smuggle us in a bottle of vodka in an Evian bottle.

Like a scene from Malory Towers, we sat in our matching pyjamas, sniggering and taking it in turns to have a swig.

Just before bed, I blearily peered my head round the door of Sarah’s old bedroom, a place where I had spent half my childhood.

Dear God, the antics that went on inside these four walls.

The time aged seven, when we laughed so hard at a ghost story we made up- ‘The Haunting of the Naughty Teapot’- that I physically wet myself and had to ask for some spare pyjamas.

Our elaborate games of truth and dare- such as when Sarah dared me to go outside and walk bare foot across the garden thorn bush. Which I did and promptly fainted when having my foot seen to with tweezers.

The pillow fight, where I overzealously hurled a cushion through the air, with all the strength of a male shot putter, managing to take the bedroom light out clean from its hinges.

Or as thirteen year olds, when we made a ‘snogging scale’. This hideous piece of work was a scale of how far we had ‘been’ with boys, ranging from a peck on the cheek to a cheeky finger.
It was unfortunate that Sarah accidentally wrote this on the back of a piece of Religious Studies homework, that she later asked her mother to help her with.

Ahh, fond memories.

The Wedding

The day had dawned.

I mean, I may be biased but she looked achingly beautiful. Some people are just made to pull off a wedding dress and Sarah is one of them.

I fear that I would end up looking like a baked potato wrapped in a doily. And probably stumble up the aisle with a fag in my mouth.

Stood outside the church with my fellow bridesmaids, a crowd of onlookers and the vicar (who was doing vocal warm ups) we eagerly awaited her arrival.

‘Can ducks change sex?’ piped up the vicar behind me.

‘P-pardon, Allen?’

‘Because I’m looking at that duck pond, see. And there were most definitely three girl ducks there last night. But now there’s one girl and two boys.’

‘Allen, now’s really not the time for-‘

‘THE ROLLS ROYCE WONT START!’ came a cry from the distance.

The beautiful old car intended to take Sarah to the church had given up the ghost right at the crucial moment.

‘I know!’ piped up a helpful villager. ‘It’s a downhill stretch from the house to the church… We’ll roll it!’

Horrific visions of Sarah hurtling down the lane and straight into the duck pond flashed before my eyes.

Panic stations set in.

I then decided that I desperately needed to pee and wondered whether I would go to hell for squatting behind a gravestone.

However, just as I was hitching up my dress and handing myself over to Satan, the Rolls started and Sarah arrived. A smiling vision in white, linked arm in arm with her older brother.

Now, I am not a crier. I never have been.

As a toddler, my parents took me to see The Lion King at the cinema. Apparently, the gut-wrenching scene where Simba’s father dies caused me to burst into such raucous laughter that I had to be taken out.

But looking at Sarah and Alex stood reading their vows, I suddenly found the floodgates opening.

‘DEAR GOD, WHAT’S HAPPENING?’ I whispered to the girls, as snot violently cascaded from my nose.

The best man valiantly reached for the tissue in his breast pocket, before realising that it was actually sewn in.

‘And now, Gabrielle will do the reading’ smiled the vicar.

I looked at him with a mixture of panic and hysteria, before deciding to blow my nose in my flower bouquet.

I slowly climbed the pulpit.

‘Once upon a time, there was a boy who loved a girl’ I began in a shaking voice.

‘And her laughter was a question that he wanted to spend his whole life answering’.

I then proceeded to make a strange strangled sound, somewhere between a honk and a moo, before stumbling through the rest of the poem.

Then they did it. They tied the knot.

Before we knew it, we were heading out into the sunshine, throwing confetti onto the newly wed couple (which unfortunately got stuck to my sweaty palm and ended up being thrown over myself).

It was a dazzling reception. The worlds biggest marquet, decked with flowers and copious amounts of champagne.

Alex had written such a moving speech- detailing how Sarah used to run away from him in town, throwing her chips at him, that she had to read it for him.

There was also a blinder of a slideshow, including a rather embarrassing photo of me sat fully clothed in the bath, clutching a bottle of red wine. Followed by my red thong being publicly returned to me, that I had lost on the hen do.

I wish I could remember more of the night but I apparently consumed two hog roasts before passing out at the buffet table.

Bridesmaid down

God knows what I was dreaming of, but when my friend woke me with a cry of ‘Gabby, get up! It’s Sarah’s wedding for God sake!’ I replied with ‘IT’S IN THE CUPBOARD UNDER THE KITCHEN SINK’ before passing out stone cold again.

My dearest Pegleg. In the words of Mr Bennet in Pride and Prejudice- ‘I cannot believe that anyone could deserve you. But I heartily give my consent’.

Or perhaps a W.C. Fields quote would be more appropriate- ‘Everybody’s got to believe in something. I believe I’ll have another beer’.

I do not sew. I get no satisfaction out of cleaning. I have zero interest in gardening, flower arranging or drawing (unless it’s a large cock on a steamed up window).

I still find farts hilarious and am perpetually told off by my parents for ‘poo talk at the dinner table’.

Shopping bores me. Babies scare me.

I don’t watch rom coms, unless they are worthy of a good perv.

(For example, in Pride and Prejudice when Colin Firth emerges all hot and bothered from the lake with his shirt stuck to him- episode 4, 32 minutes in).

I have the alcohol tolerance of an ox and the mouth of a fishwife. I shall never forget the look on my friends face when I casually described a guys penis as his ‘raging bell end’.

However, the one area where I truly fall short in womanhood is the cookery department.

I hate cooking. I simply do not see the joy in it. My few optimistic attempts have resulted in me tearfully smacking the hob with a rolling pin and having to retire to my bed with smelling salts.

Having grown such a complex about my arch nemesis- THE OVEN- that I had started throwing it dirty looks and muttering ‘bitch’ under my breath every time I walked past, I decided it was time to do something about it.

Did I buy a beginners recipe book? No.

Book myself onto a crash cookery course, perhaps? No, no.

I decided that the only logical solution to my problem would be to ENTER A COOKERY COMPETITION ON NATIONAL TELEVISION.

The premise of the programme is simple.

A woman is set up on a blind date with a man and must cook him a three course meal, winning him over with her sparkling wit and dazzling culinary talents.

Oh that man. That poor, poor man.

The thing is, I never expected to get through.

When filling in my application form (fortified by several gins and an uncooked pop tart) I made very clear that the sum total of my cooking experience amounted to that of opening a tin of Chappie for my dog.

And that my last date (in a very posh Japanese restaurant) had resulted in me drunkenly flinging a piece of sushi over my shoulder and tying my napkin round my head to do my impression of Mother Teresa.

But they bloody lapped it up.

During my audition, the cameraman laughed so hard that he actually shot tea out his nose and had to retire to the balcony for some fresh air.

Admittedly, I was a little candid with my answers:

‘Describe your ideal man in two words?’

‘MENTALLY UNSTABLE’

‘What is your favourite dish?’

‘Fruit salad. But just the grapes. That have been fermented into wine’.

I think it was the final question that finished him off:

‘How far would you be prepared to go for a first date?’

‘Oh gosh I’m not sure, ummm… A kiss and a cheeky finger perhaps?’

‘…. I meant travel wise’

And so I was shortlisted for the programme.

My first task was to compose a winning menu.

‘I’M GOING TO DO A MEXICAN THEME!’ I announced to my friends at the pub, triumphantly slamming my gin down on the table.

Yet by some miracle, after some hasty editing, my sordid little menu was selected.

I WAS GOING ON THE SHOW.

‘You know what?’ I smiled to my housemate ‘This programme could be the making of me. Not only am I FINALLY going to learn how to cook but there’s a slight chance that I might actually meet the man of my dreams. I think this is the best decision that I have ever made’.

Cue one month later.

WHAT THE BLOODY HELL HAVE I AGREED TO?!!!

It is the night before filming and I am about to have a panic attack.

I have not practised a single dish.

I still don’t know what the fuck a quesadilla is.

The sum total of my ingredients amounts to a bottle of tequila, a piñata and lifesize cut out Mexican man.

The only way that I can stop myself from having a complete nervous breakdown is by watching re-runs of Family Guy, whilst rhythmically stuffing jelly babies up the piñata’s arse.

After a hasty ASDA shop and a fitful nights sleep, where I dreamt that my arms turned into giant burritos, the dreaded morning came.

To start with, I kept it together pretty well.

I confidently arranged all my saucepans on the counter and weighed out the ingredients as if I had a clue as to what the hell I was doing.

Then things got a little… feverish.

With three large lights trained on me and all the windows shut in the flat (to drown out the noise of the sailing club opposite blaring out ‘YMCA’) the temperature in the flat had risen to about 30 degrees. And I was getting a little flustered.

‘I will start by getting my chicken out the fridge’ I smiled confidently at the camera, sticking my head inside for a moments blessed relief.

The thing is, I had never actually handled a raw chicken before.

And it REPULSED me.

I felt my stomach do a worrying flip.

‘I’m going to be cutting the chicken into bite-size chunks for my fajita mix’ I explained, trying to ignore the assortment of black spots appearing in front of my eyes.

I shakily layed out the wobbling monstrosity on the chopping board and stared at it for a few seconds, breathing deeply.

The next thing I remember is being hauled up from the chopping board by the director, with a chunk of raw chicken swinging jauntily from my fringe.

The lovely camera team then proceeded to carry me to my bedroom, with a cold flannel.

This is where the further embarrassment lay.

I normally keep my bedroom in reasonably good shape.

But lately, things had got a little ‘slack’. To the point where Stig of the Dump would not have been seen dead in it.

‘JESUS’ the cameraman swore, skidding on an old plate of spaghetti.

Another stifled a small scream at the sight of the very life-like stuffed gorilla sat in the corner of the room.

‘Oh, don’t mind Nigel!’ I smiled, hastily shoving a packet of Wind-Eaze into my bedside draw and turning over a framed photo of me cradling our prized family pig.

I never got to meet my date.

I was instead driven in the back of the film van to the nearest walk in clinic to get my head looked at. (By that, I mean the bump on my head. Not my mental state. Although that is probably something that I should also look into).

I have taken three things away from this experience.

1. I must never again attempt to cook a raw chicken. I am going to stick to what I know- cuddling them, brushing them and thinking up hilarious pet names for them, such as Princess Layer.

2. I am quite possibly a sexual pervert and need to seek professional help.

I have just come back from a long awaited trip to Ibiza with my favourite group of Welsh girls. Three blissful days of sun, sea and spewing in a bin to the sound of David Guetta.

Is what I would like to be writing.

Unfortunately, the night before my flight, I casually showed my parents the horrific black and blue bruises covering the length of my limbs (‘I can’t be QUITE sure Mother, but I think I may have drunkenly fallen down a wishing well!’) and was promptly dispatched to the doctors.

It eventually transpired that my balanced diet of gin and jam roly-poly had let me to develop a severe vitamin deficiency, similar to that of SCURVY.

A condition normally sported by SIXTEENTH CENTURY PIRATES.

‘Now then’ the doctor continued ‘I’m afraid that this is going to mean absolutely no alcohol for a week’.

There was a stunned pause.

‘Oh right!’ I replied ‘So just softer drinks, such as white wine, sangria-‘

‘I said no alcohol’.

‘Oh! You mean more like beers, cider, the occasional sherry-‘

‘NO ALCOHOL!’

(Yes, that is a Doctor Who dressing gown)

And so on Friday night, instead of dancing in the Ibiza sun and getting so off my tits that I become convinced that I’m a piece of battered fish (true story), I spent it in Wales. With my parents. Drinking a glass of MILK.

MILK! On a Friday!! I haven’t drunk milk since I was about 4 years old! My RDA of calcium comes from Pina Coladas and the occasional Dairylea triangle!

I was quite worried that my body would actually REJECT the milk and I’d start foaming at the mouth, whilst my head did a 360. Like a human cappuccino machine.

Having hidden the gin from me (I have searched the house high and low and have come to the conclusion that they must have BURIED it) my parents then took it upon themselves to throw me an equally fun filled weekend… VILLAGE STYLE!

Such rip-roaring activities included:

1. TAKING OUR DOG TO THE VETS TO GET HIS TICK REMOVED.

(By tick, I mean one of those insects that attach themselves to animals fur. He doesn’t have Tourette’s Syndrome).

2. ATTENDING THE VILLAGE W.I CRAFT AND PRODUCE SHOW.

Oh, this was a hell-bender!!

Please find below the programme for the fiercely battled vegetable competition. The thrilling categories include: A SINGLE ONION and THREE COURGETTES.

Hotly followed by category 6, for the hard-core, all-rounder, ‘fuck the system’ kind of woman: A SELECTION OF 5 VEGETABLES.

This was followed by the annual ‘Swede Rolling Competition’- the terrifying sight of 20 farmers hurling 4 stone swede’s down a hill then furiously chasing after them.

(I originally misread this in the programme as SUEDE rolling and completely lost my shit- ‘Oh we’re all going to ROLL SOME MATERIAL ARE WE?!!! OH JOY UNBOUNDED!!!! Let me just get my trusty rolling pin out my bag and JOIN IN THE RUDDY FUN!!!’).

3. A 7AM CAR BOOT SALE

This was a rather terrifying experience.

I had cleaned out my room and agreed to part with several items of clothing and a few members of my beloved cuddly toy collection.

(Even as an adult, I still have a weird fetish for cuddly toys. I will often walk past a selection of stuffed animals and develop this sort of nervous hysteria, like sweating palms and heart palpitations, until before I know it I’m stood at the counter buying 3 teddy bears and a life-size toy sheep).

I had originally laughed when my mother warned me to ‘have your wits about you’ but, dear God, nothing could have prepared me for what ensued.

People started circling the car and staring in through the windows BEFORE WE HAD EVEN PARKED.

At one point a man RAN OFF WITH OUR SCREWDRIVER, claiming casually ‘Oh sorry love, I thought it was going free!’.

However, the most traumatic moment came when I eventually parted with my beloved cuddly toy flamingo, Larry.

I finally agreed to sell it to a friendly looking woman, whom I imagined treasuring him and lovingly cradling him to her breast each night.

I tearfully handed Larry over.

‘Take good care of him’ I smiled at the woman, wiping my eyes. ‘He bought me many years of joy and happiness’.